Peggy Heinrich & Arvinder Kaur: Wednesday Haiku, #87

 Photo by Houfton

multicolored leaf pile
lately I’ve been missing
the sister I never had

           Peggy Heinrich

Photo by Roger Rössing

games at twilight-
I am given away
by my shadow

Arvinder Kaur

Photo by Earl53

taking turns
down the little waterfall...
red leaves

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don 

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Ginsberg and Bashō: Times Square and Kyoto

I've begun some background work for one of the fall sessions of  the 3 Poems Discussion Group, this one on Allen Ginsberg.  I have been reading all manner of poems, trying to see what would connect beyond the obvious, what might emphasize aspects of Allen's work sometimes overlooked, and it has been a real joy to immerse again in the work of one of the 20th century's great poets.

I ran across the poem Back on Times Square, Dreaming of Times Square and was immediately struck by its similarity in concept and title, to Bashō's poem, "Even in Kyoto ...," my favorite Bashō haiku, perhaps my fav haiku, period.   It's not really something for my purpose with the discussion group, but I thought regular readers of this blog would appreciate it.  First, let's start with Allen, then Bashō  :

'Back on Times Square,
Dreaming of Times Square'

Let some sad trumpeter stand
               on the empty streets at dawn
and blow a silver chorus to the
               the buildings of Times Square
memorial of ten years, at 5 A.M., with
               the thin white moon just
                          visible
          above the green & grooking McGraw
              Hill offices
a cop walks by, but he's invisible
              with his music

The Globe Hotel, Garver lay in
      gray beds there and hunched his
      back and cleaned his needles―
where I lay many nights on the nod
      from his leftover bloody cottons
      and dreamed of Blake's voice talking―
                  I was lonely,
          hotel's vanished into a parking lot
And I'm back here―sitting on the streets 
again―
      The movies took our language, the 
                great red signs
      A DOUBLE BILL OF GASSERS
                Teen Age Nightmare
          Hooligans of the Moon 
    
But we were never nightmare
      hooligans but seekers of
                the blond nose for Truth

Some old men are still alive, but
                 the old Junkies are gone―

We are a legend, invisible but
                 legendary, as prophesied

                                 Allen Ginsberg     

                                                                                           

    Even  in Kyoto—
hearing the cuckoo's cry—
    I long for Kyoto.

                    Bashō
                    translated by Robert Hass

Of course, Ginsberg's lament, way back in July of 1958, was just a first salvo of the attack which was to come on that the historic section of mid-town Manhattan.    The preeminent speculative fiction and Gay Studies scholar, Samuel Delany, documented the next phase and even that account was  pre the Disney-fication which would hose the whole place down and drive everyone away.

The link here is memory and Bashō somehow managed to transcend nostalgia by firmly grounding his poem in the moment.  Both poets are lamenting a previous life, but neither stoops to the maudlin or the overly sentimental.  Ginsberg, too, stays in the moment and there can really be no doubt that he wasn't nodding, in his inimitable way, to the classic haiku master.

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This week's feature poem comes from Lilliput Review, #161, in March 2008.   Peggy Heinrich is one of the poets whose contributions over the years I value very much.   Her wisdom, as in this little tanka, always brings a little light to a dark corner of mystery.

as a child
I wondered
what kept the moon in the sky
now that I know
I am no happier

Peggy Heinrich

Mount Asa--
even when cloth-pounding stops
sweet nostalgia

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,

Don

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Wayne Hogan: Master Artist, Lilliput Review Division

I can't speak for the world of big publishers, but as a small (well, ok, micro) press publisher in the business for over 20 years, I get amazing things in the mail with a fair amount of regularity.  The book pictured above may, however, take the cake for all-time surprises.

The incomparable Wayne Hogan, artist and poet extraordinaire, put together a book of his own artwork that has graced the covers and interiors of Lilliput Review for a good part of those 20 years.

And it is amazing.  I am not going to waste your time trying to describe what he has done - I'm going to show you (for maximum enjoyability, click each image to enlarge):

What we have here is 32 pages jam-packed with the kind of joy only Wayne Hogan can communicate with the tip of pen and a whole bundle of talent.  His work, while often levitating, nonetheless has kept this mag grounded for all these years and I am eternally grateful for that. I asked Wayne if this was a limited run and he said no, but at the moment there are a handful of copies available. Here's the details:

The chap sells for $11.56, which includes postage, and I'm nothing if not prompt in sending things out when I get a request---within no more than 2 days, barring drastically unforeseen circumstances.

So there you have it - fantastic art at a very reasonable rate.  Mail payment to "Wayne Hogan", little books press, PO Box 842, Cookeville, TN  38503.

One final note on the chap; it comes complete with a bevy of blurbs, which were quite a delightful surprise to me.  Here's the back cover:

click to enlarge

The quotes are all genuine, coming from various issues his work has appeared in.  Perhaps, I need to reel in my effusiveness.

It could become ubiquitous.

Then again, perhaps not.


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This week's feature poem comes from Lilliput Review, #145.  This morning, I'm particularly struck by this poem as I've been preparing for a poetry discussion session next month on Walt Whitman: Father Walt.  One of the poems I'm considering covering is "As I Ebb'd with the Ocean of Life," a poem that captures him during one of his infrequent downside moments.    The tone of this week's poem, "Ebb and Flow" by Robbie Gamble, is distantly related to Whitman's and called it to mind immediately.

There is something about the pensiveness, the taking stock, we humans seem to do on returning to the ocean, that is captured in these works, as well as E. E. Cummings "maggie and millie and mollie and may."  I will follow Robbie's poem with one of my favorite modern haiku that I use when doing introductory classes, a poem by Peggy Heinrich.

Ebb and Flow

my beloved strides the water's edge
trailing her pain in a wake


I sit on the lip of the boardwalk
walking up with the turning tide,
trying to imagine what she passes through


each of us
is pulling toward something new
as water pushes on the skin of the earth


how miraculous, to both be warmed
by the same sun-soft air

Robbie Gamble

Peggy's poem is so brief and so simple that it contains the world entire:







ebb tide
turning to look back
at my footprints

Peggy Heinrich

And, finally, we continue to think very often of our friends in that land of the sea, Japan.  Here is Issa, touching a deep, deep chord:

mother I never knew,
every time I see the ocean,
every time.

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

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Haiku: The Poetry of Nature

A few years back while in London, I purchased a beautiful little haiku book at the British Museum simply entitled The British Museum: Haiku.  You will see, however, that the title of this post is Haiku: The Poetry of Nature and you would be correct to wonder why.

The reason is simple: when the book was published here in the U.S. it was retitled.  In addition, it was given a new cover, as pictured above.  Here is the volume I purchased in London:

So, all you marketing wizards out there: what's up with this?  I've thought about it and it just breaks my brain and, frankly, for awhile caused me some considerable confusion.  Why confusion?   Well, while browsing at the library, I ran into the 1st copy pictured above and spent some lunch hours pouring over the poems and incredible illustrations from the British Museum collection.  I jotted down some notes to consult the copy I knew I had at home so I could pull together some things to share in this post.

The trouble was when I got home, it took awhile to find the book with a different title and different cover, amidst all the piles thereabouts.  When I found what I thought was the book (I wasn't sure because my notes only referred to poems and not editor etc.), I only knew I had the exact book when I read this distinctive and insightful opening sentence of the introduction:

One can know the main facts about Japanese haiku without having much feeling for them; and one can feel quite deeply about haiku without knowing many facts - intuition sometimes supplies important insights. 

A great opening for a decorative, gift-bookey looking item, with gorgeous British Museum reproductions.  Who'd a thunk it'd have a spine (sewn, too)?

In the acknowledgments by editor David Cobb it is noted that many of the translations are by R. H. Blyth, some of which Cobb and his partner, Sakaguchi Akiko, received permission from Hokuseido Press "to edit [them] to a more contemporary standard of layout and punctuation."  This carefully prepared statement says nothing about changing the words of Blyth's translations, which may be some consolation for traditionalists.  Blyth's indenting has been abandoned with all the poems left justified.  In addition to Blyth, 7 other translators are represented in the collection, including 5 poems rendered by Makoto Ueda, with the remainder translated by Cobb.   

Of the 71 poems presented, I noted 19 or so for further inspection.  Why the or so?  Sometimes, when I'm not sure, I simply put a question mark so I'll return to the poem to see what I think later.  In addition to the poems, every page has a facing classical artwork, some running over onto the poem page, taken from scrolls, wood block prints, and books. The paper is heavy, the binding sewn, as noted above, and the colors of the prints are fine.

Two poems on the same page, facing a triptych woodblock illustration entitled "A Picnic on the Beach" demonstrate the care and precision that went into this volume:

on the ebb tide beach
everything we pick up
is alive

Chiyo-ni

spring loneliness -
it falls short of the surf
this stone I toss

Suzuki Masajo

Both of these poems address the kinds of thoughts the ocean evokes.  The first has deeper philosophical implications; it reminds me of a wonderful Peggy Heinrich haiku I reprinted recently ("ebb tide / turning to look back / at my footprints"), both poems being reflections of past and possibly future things, in the present moment.  Not quite the "being there" of the Buddhist moment but it is being everywhere in the momet, if you will.

The 2nd haiku treats another common feeling at land's end, the sense of loneliness and the feeling of being very small in the larger context of things.   I'd almost prefer the poem without the first line, though in either case it reminds one of the basic sadness that seems to underlie all things.

A little further in comes another poem which has a similar subject as Suzuki Masjo's:

alone in the spring -
hurling a javelin, and the
walking after it

Nomura Toshirō

Anyone who has played any competitive sport on their own knows this feeling.  There probably is nothing more solitary than hitting a baseball alone and chasing it, or throwing a ball up in the air continually with no one there to catch it but yourself.  The feeling reminds us very sharply what we are missing.

The theme of loneliness pervades the collection:

a summer shower -
a woman sits alone
gazing outside

Kikaku

The following is an unusual poem that pushes the limits of traditional haiku - I'm really not sure at all what the poet is after:

buckling in the heat
where the A-bomb burst
a marathon

Kaneko Tota

The whole poem rides on whatever it is that is buckling. Certainly the reader knows what the buckling is an allusion to. Is it a runner the narrator sees or the narrator herself who buckles? Is it an illusion, as heat shimmering off pavement, creating an appearance of buckling, recalling that other buckling? I'm at a loss but the mood is both mysterious and haunting.

It never fails to amaze me that I go from book to book, anthology to anthology, concerning haiku and still there is another "unread" Bashō poem:

the beginning of poetry:
the song of the rice-planters
in the province of Ōshū

Bashō

The reason for the quotes around unread is that I've read the complete Bashō via Jane Reichold and I don't recall this one.  Hardly surprising, I guess, since there are so many radically different renderings of classical poems but, still, you'd think I'd have even a tiny clue.  In any case, I really like this haiku for many reasons, not the least of which is that this thick-minded Westerner now senses the visceral reason for the many rice singing haiku of Issa.

Duh, my dad said!

Here's a couple of mosquito poems one each from Issa and Bashō, both translated very well by Mr. Cobb:

mosquitoes by day
the Buddha hides them all
behind his back

Issa

at my poor hovel
there's one thing I can offer -
skinny mosquitoes

Bashō

The first one I don't recognize at all, the second I believe to be a haiku that has been translated many different ways previously.  I like them both, the first making a big picture point, the second a little more personal.  The next poem by Bashō is one that almost everyone translates, but this simple, stripped down version by Blyth is
still the best:

the moon:
I wandered around the pond
all night long

Bashō

Longer versions of this poem tend to emphasize the moon's journeying as well as the narrator's all-night rambling - the implication is there in the simple version and anything additional is really superfluous.  The colon says it all, performing the function of the cutting word in the original Japanese and very clearly emphasizing the comparison conjured by the poem's dichotomy.  Just a perfect little poem with cosmic qualities that are at once lyrical and scientific.

grasshopper -
do not trample to pieces
the pearls of bright dew

Issa

Issa recounts in haiku lots of instances of saving grasshoppers, ants, and flies from being trampled so here is an ironical turn. Thinking on Issa's other two poems about dew recently highlighted in a post and how dew seems to represent the ephemeral nature of life, there is much resonance in this little piece, again masterfully translated by Blyth.

I can hear those 4 volumes of Blyth's calling me as I type.

bush-clover flowers -
they sway but do not drop
their beads of dew

Bashō

he says a word,
and I say a word - autumn
is deepening

Kyoshi

The first haiku reminds me of Issa's poem "as it falls / the peony lets drop the rain / of yesterday," or if stated in the proper order, Issa's should remind us of Bashō's. In one case the precipitation doesn't drop, in the other it does. Though these pieces are imagistic and beautiful in their own right, they also remind us of the interconnectedness of all things. Beyond that, Kyoshi's poem is deeply moving, rendered as it is by Makoto Ueda. In this case, everything hinges on the single word autumn, in its placement and its implications. There is almost a sense that the word said and repeated is "autumn," though admittedly that seems a stretch. Still, if that isn't the word(s), its meaning and implication is clearly what the topic of conversation is about.  A beautiful, stunning haiku, certainly.

low over the railroad
wild geese flying -
a moonlit night

Shiki

This is a poem about movement, about travel, and, I imagine, also about sound, perhaps as it fades into the distance.  There is a blending, perhaps, of the two sounds as they move away.  Mr. Blyth is a master translator and, like a master painter, sketches in a few brief brushstrokes a world entire.

Here's a Buson piece I've missed previously:

the beginning of autumn:
what is the fortune-teller
looking so surprised at?

Buson

Indeed.  We are right now at the beginning of autumn in the Northern hemisphere and we know what that means.  There is a fine humor here, though the macabre is not very deep below the surface.

no escaping it -
I must step on fallen leaves
to take this path

Suzuki Masajo

Some of the previous poems prepare the reader for the full implications of this poem.  Autumn is the season of ending, the season of dying, and we all must walk on fallen leaves to do what we are doing and arrive where we all arrive.  "No escaping it."

These 3 haiku follow one upon the other:

a sudden squall
and the bird by the water
is turning white

Buson

the angler -
his dreadful intensity
in the evening rain!

Buson

the sea darkens -
the voices of the wild ducks
are faintly white

Bashō

The first and third poems are familiar but the placement of them together really underscores their difference as much as their similarity.  "A sudden squall" has Buson's painterly quality, while "the sea darkens" utilizes the technique of synesthesia I touched upon in a recent post on Issa, which adds a whole other dimension to the scene.  The intensity of the storm in "the angler" dovetails nicely with the fisherman's own intensity and conjures the picture rather than paints it, which would be Buson's usual approach.  All three together like this remind the reader of Japan's island culture and dependence upon the sea.

this one eye sightless
but on that side also
I polish my glasses.

Hino Sōjo

Curious about Hino Sōjō, I did some poking around and there wasn't much except the occasional poem here and there.  There is a Wikipedia article, but only in German.  Using the google translate function, you get this horrific piece of work:


      Google translation from German to English of Wikipedia article:

Hino Sojo was born in Ueno, Taito, Tokyo township.

During studies in law from Kyoto University, he called the common Haiku Society of the University and the third high school to life. In 1924 he graduated and became a clerk. As a haiku poet he was trained at the Takahama Kyoshi literary magazine edited by drew at the age of 21 years of attention, as written by him to Haiku on the first page of Hototogisu reached. 1929, at the age of 28, he was finally included in the fixed circle of the magazine.

In 1934 he published in the journal Haikukenkyū (俳 句 研究, GV "Haiku-research") the haiku Miyako Hoteru cycle, in which he first wedding night of two newly weds, described, and thus sent a shock wave through the world of haiku poetry. It acted Although this is a purely fictional story, but this gave rise to the so-called Miyako Hoteru dispute in which Kusatao Nakamura and Kubota Mantaro practiced sharp criticism Saisei Murō contrast, appeared as counsel.

1935 brought together the three journals Sojo somato from Tokyo, Osaka and from Seiryō Hiyodori from Kobe and founded the new journal KIKAN, of which he became.

He called for a modern form of haiku without words and broke so final season with the conservative Takahama Kyoshi, which excluded him in 1936 from among the Hototogisu.

1949, after the Second World War, Sojo went to Ikeda (Osaka) and founded the magazine Seigen.

29 January 1956 Hino Sojo died as a result of tuberculosis disease, by which he had been since 1946 on his sick bed. 

 

Besides emphasizing how horrible machine translation is (and providing the occasional howler), this translation does give up some intriguing details.   I am fascinated in his proposal of a poetic form of "haiku without words" (not only no finger, but no moon!). The first garbled sentence is very perplexing - if anybody's got a clue, I'd appreciate it.

The haiku itself, "the one eye sightless," has a quality which gives a glimpse into the quirks of human nature.  There is humor, sadness, and I think a sense of human resilience that makes this poem special.

Overall, this is a collection that may be visited again and again, with some fine translations and excellent art.  Though I don't link to amazon, there are quite a few copies available there for 46 cents and up.  I do link to abebooks and you will find excellent copies there for even less when you factor in the amazon shipping.   Very good and fine copies for $3.97 and $4.00 respectively, beating amazon out by 50 cents.

Definitely well worth the price ...

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This week's feature poem from the Lilliput archive comes from #133, October 2003.  Enjoy.

    Oxford Cemetery

You thought because
the trees moved
and the stones didn't
you understood
the meaning of the wind.

Louis Bourgeois

autumn wind--
Issa's heart and mind
stirring 

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue 

best,
Don

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"The scissors hesitate:" Buson by Hass

Buson, known as the artistic or painterly poet among the haiku masters, is a master of precision.  Reading through Robert Hass's renderings of Buson, I've been most impressed by two things: the concision Hass manages to use with Buson, to great effect, and Buson's own intense concentration on the moment.

The later point connects Buson to the verse in a spiritual way  that is often marginalized when considering his work.  Of course, we all share the moment, atheist and believer alike, which is a simple truth.  However, we don't all necessarily live in it or celebrate it and, though the present moment is one of the tenets of fine haiku, in I didn't expect it to manifest itself to quite the degree it does in  Buson's work.

Some of what I've selected from Hass's translation are frequently anthologized pieces and I won't apologize for that; they are selected by many an editor for good reasons.  Yet, still, there a number of poems perhaps not quite as familiar.  That was certainly the case with me.

       I go
you stay;
       two autumns.

 While reading up on critical approaches to haiku, one tenet proffered the question: "Where does the poem resolve, in the mind of the poet, on the page, or in the mind of the reader?"  Certainly this haiku isn't spiritual in the Buddhist sense but there is deep emotion here.   There will be two different autumns because the two people of the poem will be in two different places.  The idea that even the season itself will be different accentuates the distance between the two friends or lovers.  6 words, one large parcel of loneliness.

      The cherry blossoms fallen-
through the branches
      a temple.

This is the painterly Buson who is so often mentioned.  With the blossoms gone, the temple appears.  There is a spiritual quality to this, ennui or sabi, if you will.  The season passes, impermanence is heightened, yet, even at that, something is offered by way of a solution.  Is there an acceptance here of the need to move away from attachment to attain the end of suffering?  Or is it just another pretty picture?

      Autumn evening-
there's joy also
      in loneliness.

I've highlighted this particular haiku because, though one may sketch in all manner of naturalistic details to fill out a picture, the main argument here to me is philosophical.  Autumn has come, winter is coming, the season of death, yet still there might be joy.  What is the joy in loneliness?  It is something most of us have felt and, though elusive, that joy, it is of great import.  

       Butterfly
sleeping
       on the temple bell

Perhaps Buson's most famous poem (here's a post on it from way back - actually, there were two), the image is powerful, because, I believe, of the implication and not the allure.  Again, the word temple conjures a spiritual mood.  The sleeping butterfly recalls Lao Tzu's dreaming butterfly, or the butterfly dreaming of Lao Tzu?  Here the moment is captured a little bit more effectually than, for instance, in "Cherry blossoms fallen."   The problem with the later may be the tense of the rendering.

      Flowers offered to the Buddha
come floating
      down the winter river.

This is painterly, indeed, and the image may overwhelm the message, yet still there is a message.  It is the passage of time and seasons, as the flowers of spring and summer flow down in winter into the river that, in a way, reminds me of Issa's wonderful insects on a branch, floating down river, singing.

      Not a leaf stirring;
frightening,
      the summer grove.

This is, as rendered, is a potent piece. The minimalist approach puts all the weight on the swing or gate word, frightening, which modifies both the opening and closing line, and, standing alone, as one imagines the speaker in the forest, becomes very powerful, indeed.   Fear is not often the subject of classical haiku and rightly so.  Normally, the exact same scene is sketched quite differently, a quiet, serene country scene.  Here, though one's attention is riveted because it is too quiet, and the narrator's animal instincts take over.  Negative as it is, still, it is one of my favorite Buson haiku.

   

      Escaped the ropes,
escaped the nets-
      moon on the water.

This is, perhaps, too imagistic but, having  lived a long time by the sea, it does have a certain romantic appeal.  Dipping a little beneath the surface, one discerns a classic theme of human being versus nature and, per usual, human loses again, as the moon escapes.  Yet, the poet captures the moon, among other things, and all is not lost.  Or not.

      Before the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate
      a moment.

This may be my favorite of Buson.   The pause is physical and intellectual and emotional - a beautiful picture, if conjured properly in the mind, about to become un-beautiful in the next moment.  Still, the lesson of death is repeated, and beauty, too.  Desire is the cause of all longing, all suffering.  Yet, we repeat the cycle no matter how many times we learn the lesson.
 

      People visiting all day-
in between
      the quiet of the peony.

Once again, philosophy and art meet each other halfway.  The poem, perfectly balanced on the fulcrum of its second line, eventually tilts toward the silence that is its resolution.  Without noise, there is no silence, so we are truly "in between."  What tilts it for me, you ask?  Well, the poem might be rendered "The quiet of the peony - / in between / people visiting all day."  In meditation, it is silence which informs the sounds of life and all its complications.  Truly, it is the balance we need; there is no yang without ying.  Pretty as one might find the poem, its message is every bit as potent as its beauty. 

The poet, like everyone else, needs no church or temple to be religious.  The way which may be walked is not the eternal way. 

      A tethered horse,
snow
      in both stirrups.

This is, indeed, too, painterly, yet it is exactly that quality that appeals to me.  There seems to be only image, evocative as it is, without underlying spiritual or philosophic motive.  What I like here is exactly what I like when seeing a great painting or reading a piece of flash fiction.  I imagine the ride through nasty weather, in any emergency or an important meeting or a lover's tryst, the long discussion in a warm lodging while the horse patiently waits and all the color is gradually removed from the scene.  This is at once what Buson is most criticized for and what he is very best at.  Does it have the appeal of the layered, probing work of Bashō or emotive, resonant poems of Issa?  Surely not.  Does it have it's place in the world of poetry in general and haiku specifically?

Most definitely so.


                              Early spring ...

      In the white plum blossoms
night to next day
      just turning.  

The last Hass rendering I'll pass on, this is another coupling of stunning image with a perfectly conjured moment.   This very specific light, caught in this very specific moment, in the texture particular to white plum blossoms, is perfection itself.  As to the moment: what is better, to live the moment and the moment only or simply to talk about it?  As far as spirituality goes, there is no Zen.  There is no plum blossom.  There is no light.  First, there is no mountain.

Then there is.

Buson, I have been seduced.  Mister Hass is to blame.


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This week's featured poem from the Lilliput Review archive comes from #135,  published in January 2004.  Let's make that this week's two featured poems: enjoy.


The Zen Review

seeks poems that focus clearly
on nothing.  Avoid references
to nonexistent past and future.
Present tense only, please.
We value poetry that depicts truth
about time, captures the essence of breath.
Overstocked with poems about sore knees,
monkey minds and one-hands clapping.

Peggy Heinrich

Landing Road

Old pine trees
line the road

so many tongues
for the wind 

Michael Kriesel

when the nightingale
moves into the pine...
voice of the pine

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue 

best,
Don

Blues & Haiku: Big Mama Thornton & Peggy Heinrich

Over the years, Peggy Heinrich has published a number of outstanding haiku in the pages of Lilliput Review. 10 of her works were recently featured at santacruz.com. Of the featured haiku, I was particularly touched by:

holding my breath
until the cormorant
resurfaces

Peggy Heinrich

This, of course, reminds me of Bashō's cormorant poem, featured and discussed in a previous post. Here's Bashō, as translated by Lucien Stryk:

Cormorant fishing
how stirring
how saddening.

Bashō
translated by Lucien Styrk

For those unfamiliar with cormorant "fishing," the following explanation comes from that earlier post:

The verse about the cormorant fishing perhaps needs a gloss. Fisherman commonly used the cormorant to fish by tying a string around its neck so when the bird snared a fish it couldn't swallow and the "fisherman" would simply remove the fish and put the bird back in the water. Not quite fishing with hand grenades, but certainly in the same mode. What really captures the true Basho spirit here is that he is both stirred and saddened, he still sees the miracle of nature despite the appalling behavior of nature's "highest creation", man.

Peggy manages to capture the idea of being stirred, as in Styrk's version of Bashō, with a suggestion of sadness or, perhaps, horror.

Another poem that resonates from this selection seems so basic, so simple in image and execution, to approach cliché, and yet, and yet (as Issa said of the dewdrop world):

ebb tide
turning to look back
at my footprints

Peggy Heinrich

In some ways, this is a perfect modern haiku: precise, concise, a literal image capturing a specific moment that resonates mightily. There is not one wrong word here and each carries its weight. Three words are at this poems core: ebb, turning, and back. What each one of those words means individually and collectively makes the poem come together. It is something anyone whose been to a shoreline has experienced. Mixed in that experience is the cosmic feel of place, a sense of self as self, a sense of self as part of the whole, a sort of returning, a vague bit of romantic nostalgia ...

But, ah, I'm projecting and that's the point of great haiku, the interaction of reader and poem, bringing one's own experience to bear. The poem has a feeling of ending, but it could just as well be about beginning, or both.

A genuine haiku moment, so simple it might easily be overlooked, as we overlook things, ordinary things, each and every day. Haiku moments. Moments.

The now.


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On to the then, to risk a trite segue. Here is a moment, courtesy of Miss Late July (who also recently posted this), that is just too good for words. Big Mama Thornton. A very young Buddy Guy.

And, because once you get something like this started you can't stop, see if this one doesn't blow you out of the water:

Ok, so three's a charm: this one's for Janis (there is a reason this link has over 6 million hits), who was a huge fan of Big Mama (turn it UP):

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Featured this week are two poems from the archive, from Lilliput Review #143 (June 1993), to mull over:

when you say 'bird'
do you feel
your wings unfurl?

Jean Michel Guilliaumond

A Melody by Haydn

wild plums --- just --- out -of ---reach

James Magorian

And one from the master:

not giving a damn
that plum blossoms fall...
his stern face

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

On The Acorn Book of Contemporary Haiku

In perusing my poetry shelves to see what was what, it occurred to me that, as a semi-regular feature, I could delve into the items found there and share a thought or two. So, the first couple of shelves consists of anthologies of Eastern or Eastern influenced verse, haiku, tanka, and traditional Chinese, Japanese, and Indian verse. In addition there are some modern anthologies of English and American verse in traditional forms, which brings us to the first item on the shelf, The Acorn Book of Contemporary Haiku, edited by Lucien Stryk and Kevin Bailey.

The first thing I realized about this book is that I must have purchased it on a London trip because it is going for ridiculous sums via amazon and has evidently never been published in the States. I bought it for 4.5 pounds, probably as a remainder at the Ulysses Bookshop near the British Museum.

I'm over halfway through the volume (so it goes for perusing part of this "project") and I have to say it is as fine a collection of contemporary haiku as I've run across. The hint of regret (have to say) I believe betrays the fact that I'm recommending something that is costly and difficult to get a hold of.

The volume's selection and tone bears all the earmarks of Stryk: poems stark, precise, and imagistic in nature. Stripped to the bone, the bones boiled, and placed out on large leaves, gleaming as they dry in the sun. Imagine my surprise when I ran smack into three poems that have graced past issues of Lilliput Review. Here they are:

Spring

The earth bears
everything,
even your sadness.

David Lindley

ancient headstones
the name and numbers
worn to murmurs.

William Hart

Summer

When the page was blank
no one thought, suddenly
a flower would appear.

David Lindley

One of the things that surprised me a bit was the lack of acknowledgment, a pet peeve of mine. Don't get me wrong; I don't think it is something a press or poet is obligated to do, it's just a courtesy. I explain to folks that it is akin to being accepted for publication for a poet/writer. It is a great lift and, most importantly, recognition of quality in the editorial process. This is not a gripe with this particular press or either poet, just me talking out loud. In my estimation, these are great examples of the finest work in haiku form and I'm proud to have helped them see the light of day. As far as I'm concerned, it is the poet who owns the work, from inception through publication and in any further incarnations, unless they explicitly sign that right away. And they'll never do that here at Lillie.

So, no harm, no foul ... just a little boy griping.

But I digress (and feel the better for it). Here's a selection of a few items that grabbed my attention and held it.

in the corpse's
half-closed eyes
the flame of a candle

Vasile Spinei

one word
but so many varieties
of rain

David Findley

Another robin in my mousetrap:
few of us fail to give
humanity a bad name.

Anthony Weir

The old barn
--looks more like a tree
----each year.

Hannah Mitte

late afternoon sun
the shadow of the gravestone
slants towards my feet

Brian Tasker

Works Gloves

On the garden gate
left here with me --
Shape of her hands

Bob Arnold

The white kitten
playing and playing
with the faded cherry petal

Vincent Tripi

Still in my garden
--------I bend to pluck a weed but
----------------see its smiling face.

Harold Morland

In the garden of Saleh
The silence is soothed
By the whispered lisp of leaves.

David Gascoyne

sunrise
the fisherman's shadow stretches
across the river

George Swede

A moorhen dives
Ripples spread
To the ends of the earth

Aasha Hanley

I hear the magpies
and you you have give me
this sense of longing.

Paul Finn

I was equally delighted to see a number of poets whose work has appeared in Lilliput featured in Acorn. From this selection alone are the fine poets George Swede, Vincent Tripi, and Bob Arnold. What is most amazing, really, is I've just dug through to the first layer of this exemplary volume. If I have the time and space, perhaps I'll highlight a few more poems from the 2nd half of this work sometime soon.

For an additional insightful, theoretical review (with a large selection of poems) of The Acorn Book of Contemporary Haiku, see Lynx Book Reviews (last review toward the bottom of the page - and from this review which I read after completing this post, I discovered another Lillie poem in the volume, from the 2nd half I haven't gotten to, this one by Gary Hotham).

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In the Bashô Haiku Challenge update, I can say that I've narrowed down the nearly 500 haiku received to somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 to 70 poems after two complete read-throughs. Lots of decisions still to made, one big one being exactly how long will this year's chapbook be. I believe I'll let content dictate form in this instance, so living with the poems for another two weeks or so should help answer that question very well.

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This week's featured issue is #152, from November 2006. Hope something grabs you here:

After Basho

Chrysanthemums bloom
in a gap between the silence
of the stonecutter's yard.

Michael Wurster

trumpet vine
still waiting
for you

David Gross

in the park
--struck
by a falling leaf

Peggy Heinrich

Four ancient rocks rose from the earth:
Grief, Rope, Axe, and Sparrow

Gail Ivy Berlin

And, before I flit off, one more:

baby sparrow--
even when people come
opening its mouth

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

Random Notes: James Wright, Kerouac, Jane Campion's Keats

In preparation for a session of the 3 Poems By ... discussion group, I've been reading all things James Wright. Could I have a better job, getting to research one my favorite poets in preparation for a work project? And the things I've learned.

I mostly detest reading about poetry. That's not a hard admission, though it is a bit of a damning one. In any case, I am beginning to realize how wrongheaded that is. Here is a quote I ran across in a Paris Review interview with Wright (a .pdf) from 1972:

"Tolstoy was asked in a letter by a pacifist group if he could give them a definition of religion and, if he could do that, to explain to them the relation between religion, that is, what a person believes, and morality, that is, the way he acts in accord with some notion of how he ought to act. Tolstoy worried about this letter, and as I recall it, he said: 'I can only go back to myself. I look around myself and I see every year that, no matter what people do to themselves and to one another, the spring constantly renews itself. This is a physical fact, not a metaphysical theory. I look at every spring and I respond to it very strongly. But I also notice that every year the spring is the same new spring and every year I am one year older. I have to ask the question: What is the relation between my brief and tragic life and this force in the universe that perpetually renews itself? I further believe that every human being asks this question. He cannot avoid asking it-it is forced upon him. And his answer to that question is his religion. If he says the relation between me and this thing is nothing, then his religion is nihilism. As for morality, what ought I to do? I wish I knew.' That was a great letter."

The understatement of that last line, though it doesn't quite have the sheer power of "I have wasted my life", packs a considerable wallop. Interestingly, the quote was in part in reply to a question asking Wright's opinion of the poet John Berryman, whom he greatly admired.

Though one might be tempted to write it off to the interviewer's observation that a jug of wine, which needed to be refilled, sat between them during the interview, really it is the poet's natural inclination to inform her/his topic obliquely, metaphorically, if you will. James Wright considered himself a teacher first and one mustn't argue with a writer's opinion of himself. Perhaps he was a teacher first, but his instincts are purely lyrical.

I highly recommend this interview to anyone with the least attraction to his work. PC, it ain't, but insightful it is.




*********************



Today is the anniversary of the death of Jack Kerouac, variously attributed to alcohol, ulcers, or the swallowing of a piece of tin from a tuna top; a subtle combination of all three probably did the deed. At least that was my understanding. Gerald Nicosia succinctly summarizes: Jack Kerouac died on October 21, 1969 “of hemorrhaging esophageal varices, the classic drunkard’s death."

As is the case when remembering him, I like to pull his Book of Haikus off the shelf and randomly open it. Typically, the facing pages contain a total of 6 to 8 poems and I always find at least one that grabs me.

Bluejay drinking at my
---saucer of milk
throwing his head back

Missing a kick
---at the icebox door
it closed anyway

Lonesome blubbers
---grinding out the decades
with wet lips

Ah, the birds
---at dawn,
my mother and father

A current pimple
---In the mind's
Old man

Here's a online selection of his haiku for those craving more. Jack's work in the form is better than I ever imagined it might be. The relationship between the direct pointing of haiku/zen philosophy and first thought, best thought, is as natural as might be.



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The new Jane Campion movie on John Keats, is getting high grades from folks I talk to. Ron Silliman has a fine tuned take this week over at his blog. Here's the trailer:






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As of this writing, entries for the 2nd Annual Bashô Haiku Challenge (scroll down here for prize update) have already handily surpassed last year in number. Keep 'em coming, folks: there is still 10 full days before the deadline.



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From this week's featured issue, Lilliput #156, a sequence of poems from the middle section. Hope you enjoy them.





far
from the hurricane's path
farther from myself

Robbie Gamble

upturned shells
cup the receding tide...
still not over you

Jeffrey Stillman

Love Song #22

Your absence
lengthens like a shadow
in the afternoon sun

Martha J. Eshelman

a seagull
atop each post
their different looks

Peggy Heinrich

And a final note from Issa:

even for winter's withering
an indifferent face...
sea gull

Issa
translated by David Lanoue

best,
Don

Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka, 2008 Anthology

I just received notification via Curtis Dunlap at Blogging Along Tobacco Road of the release of the new Modern Tanka Press publication Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka, 2008 Anthology. I contacted the folks at Modern English Tanka Press and they sent me their press release, which I'm running below (followed by the usual weekly Lilliput archive post). These folks help set the standard for English language tanka so if you are interested great poetry in the short form in general and/or tanka as a form in particular you should get a hold of this volume.

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TANKA NEWS & HAIKU HEADLINES published a new entry entitled "Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka, 2008 Anthology, Published by Modern English Tanka Press" on 4/9/2009 3:07:30 PM, written by DMG.

---

Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka, 2008 Anthology, Published by Modern English Tanka Press

DATE: April 7, 2009 PRESS RELEASE

For Immediate Release

Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka, 2008 Anthology, Published by Modern English Tanka Press

Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka is edited by M. Kei, Sanford Goldstein, Pamela A. Babusci, Patricia Prime, Bob Lucky, Kala Ramesh. This editorial team set out to read the entire field of tanka publication for a single year, regardless of source, without any dogma regarding definition, form or content. Over the course of fourteen months, they read over fourteen thousand poems. The results are gathered in one of the best new poetry anthologies.

Baltimore, Maryland – April 7, 2009 – Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka, edited by M. Kei, Sanford Goldstein, Pamela A. Babusci, Patricia Prime, Bob Lucky, Kala Ramesh, has been published in trade paperback by Modern English Tanka Press. Original cover art by Pamela A. Babusci.

Tanka, the ancient Japanese poetic form, has been am important source for modernists for more than a hundred years, but never relegated itself to the position of dusty relic. It is alive and vital and producing some of the most eloquent and insightful poetry published in English today. Anthologies, contests, journals, and web sites publish thousands upon thousands of tanka poems every year—but which ones are the most rewarding for the readers?

The editorial team of Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka set out to read the entire field of tanka publication for a single year, regardless of source, without any dogma regarding definition, form or content. Over the course of fourteen months, they read over fourteen thousand poems. The results are gathered in one of the best new poetry anthologies. Famous names and unknown poets from around the world appear side by side in 321 single poems and several tanka sequences and tanka prose pieces. A List of Venues consulted and complete publishing credits are included, along with an introduction that covers the history of tanka and the project itself.

The poets included are: Hortensia Anderson, Susan Antolin, Aurora Antonovic, An’ya, Harue Aoki, Megan Arkenberg, Pamela A. Babusci, Dave Bacharach, Marty Baird, Jon Baldwin, Collin Barber, John Barlow, Frederick Bassett, Roberta Beary, Janick Belleau, Cathy Drinkwater Better, Randy Brooks, Marjorie Buettner, Owen Bullock, David Caruso, James Chessing, Bell Gale Chevigny, Margaret Chula, Tom Clausen, ªerban Codrin, Norman Darlington, Janet Lynn Davis, Cherie Hunter Day, Andrew Detheridge, Melissa Dixon, Jim Doss, Curtis Dunlap, Jeanne Emrich, Margarita Engle, Michael Evans, Amelia Fielden, Trish Fong, Sylvia Forges-Ryan, Stanford M. Forrester, Bernard Gadd, Linda Galloway, Denis M. Garrison, Beverley George, Sanford Goldstein, Tom Gomes, M. L. Grace, Andrea Grillo, David Gross, William Hart, M. L. Harvey, C. W. Hawes, Peggy Heinrich, Lorne Henry, William J. Higginson, Ruth Holzer, Elizabeth Howard, Roger Jones, Jim Kacian, Kirsty Karkow, M. Kei, Susan Lee Kerr, Michael Ketchek, Larry Kimmel, Mariko Kitakubo, Kathy Kituai, Deborah P. Kolodji, Robert Kusch, Lynne Leach, Gary LeBel, Angela Leuck, Darrel Lindsey, Bob Lucky, Jeanne Lupton, Carole MacRury, Laura Maffei, Mary Mageau, A. A. Marcoff, Thelma Mariano, Francis Masat, Karen McClintock, Michael McClintock, Tyrone McDonald, Jo McInerney, Dorothy McLaughlin, Paul Mercken, Annette Mineo, Vasile Moldovan, Mike Montreuil, Jim Moore, June Moreau, Joan Murphy, H. Gene Murtha, Peter Newton, Linda Papanicolaou, Patrick M. Pilarski, Jack Prewitt, Patricia Prime, Carol Purington, John Quinnett, Claudia Coutu Radmore, David Rice, Andrew Riutta, Barbara Robidoux, James Rohrer, Alexis Rotella, Miriam Sagan, Fujiko Sato, Grant D. Savage, Philip Schofield, Billy Simms, Guy Simser, Paul Smith, John Soules, Art Stein, John Stevenson, Richard Stevenson, Maria Steyn, John Stone, André Surridge, George Swede, Noriko Tanaka, Frans Terryn, Carolyn Thomas, Marc Thompson, Tony A. Thompson, Michael Thorley, Julie Thorndyke, Kozue Uzawa, Geert Verbeke, Ella Wagemakers, Linda Jeannette Ward, Michael Dylan Welch, Liam Wilkinson, Robert D. Wilson, Jeffrey Woodward, An Xiao, Peter Yovu, and Aya Yuhki.

"Take Five is like Dave Brubeck’s famous long jazz piece of the same name: both simple and complex, with varied rhythms that can make fingers snap and hips sway. Beguiling for the beginner and expert alike." — George Swede

"It seems that with every turn—whether it be picking up the latest tanka journal, navigating your way to tanka sites across the web or checking out a new entry from one of the ever-growing number of tanka bloggers—that these small but perfectly formed poems continue to offer us some of the most breathtaking moments in contemporary poetry. It’s nothing short of spellbinding to behold a new tanka, its five-lines engraved in the granite of an ancient form of literature but with all the freshness of a green leaf showing. Today, writers are leaving their tanka ajar—in these brief moments of poetry, anything is possible and everything is welcome—and, as a result, tanka is able to thrive across the globe. As writers of tanka embrace the modern world, the modern world embraces tanka.

Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka succeeds in providing a comprehensive illustration of the state of modern tanka. Here we have a veritable feast of the finest individual tanka, tanka sequences and tanka prose published over the last year, handpicked from every nook and cranny by an editorial board that consists of some of the most highly respected figures in the field. Take Five is, at once, a satisfying digest of quality tanka and an indispensable tanka handbook for new and experienced writers of the form. With an extensive and absorbing introduction from the chief editor of the anthology, M. Kei, the book is not only a literary treat but an essential addition to the poetry shelf of reader and writer alike." —Liam Wilkinson, Editor, 3 Lights Gallery

"Powerful short stories written in five lines—that’s what Take Five is all about. This anthology is not just your tanka wallpaper variety; nearly every piece is a jumpstart for the heart that tells the truth about that four-letter word called ‘Life.’ M. Kei and his team of editors are to be commended—when I was done readingTake Five, for a moment, I didn’t know if I was a woman, a monk or a pelican." —Alexis Rotella, Ed., Prune Juice: Journal of Senryu and Kyoka

About Editors:

M. Kei crews aboard a skipjack, a traditional wooden sailboat used to dredge for oysters in the Chesapeake Bay, the last vessel in North America to fish commercially under sail. Sadly, it is not a profitable way to make a living anymore. The vessel serves as a museum on the water and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Kei has published over 1100 tanka and 300 other short poems during the last few years. His first book was the anthology Fire Pearls: Short Masterpieces of the Human Heart (2006), which he edited. An instant classic, it was followed by Heron Sea, Short Poems of the Chesapeake (2007) andSlow Motion: The Log of a Chesapeake Bay Skipjack (2008), the log he kept in poetic form while making extended cruises aboard a skipjack. He is editor-in-chief of Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka.

Sanford Goldstein writes: "As for my own work, I have been a tanka poet for about fifty years. I am called a co-translator of six collections of famous Japanese tanka poets. Even with years of study of Japanese, I could do nothing alone. Two books took five years each, though it was still enjoyable to do the translations. I know what it means to be rejected quite often these 65 years as a writer. So I join in sympathy with those whose tanka have not appeared in our edition."

Pamela A. Babusci is an award winning poet and artist. Some of her awards include: Museum of Haiku Literature Award, Tanka Splendor Awards, First Place Yellow Moon Tanka Competition, First Place Kokako Tanka Competition, Basho Festival Haiku Contest, and HM Suruga Baika Literary Festival. Pamela has illustrated several books, including: Full Moon Tide: The Best of Tanka Splendor Awards, Taboo Haiku, Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka and the forthcoming haiku chapbook, Chasing The Sun. She was the logo artist for Haiku North America in NYC in 2003 and Haiku North America in Winston-Salem, NC in 2007. She says poetry & art have been an integral part of her existence since her early teenage years & will continue to be a driving force until she meets her creator.

Patricia Prime retired from teaching pre-school a couple of years ago, but is still involved in relief teaching and working with children at her local school with English as a second language. She is the co-editor of the NZ haiku magazine Kokako, reviews editor of Takahe and Stylus, and assistant editor of Haibun Today. Patricia’s tanka has been published in Modern English Tanka, Atlas Poetica, Eucalypt, Ribbons, moonset, Gusts, 3 Lights Gallery, Kokako, Time Haiku, Presence and Blithe Spirit. Her haiku have been published in several magazines and her haibun have been published in Contemporary Haibun Online andHaibun Today. She has been published, with three other poets, in the haibun collaboration Quartet and is currently working on a tanka prose collaboration with three other poets. Patricia also writes articles, mainstream poetry, annually judges a formal poetry contest, is one of the nominees for the tanka for Gusts, and is on the panel of judges for the Presence Seashell Game.

Bob Lucky holds degrees from Dartmouth College and the University of Washington. He is currently in the online MFA program through the University of Texas at El Paso. His work has appeared in various international journals. He has spent stretches of his adult life living and working throughout Asia. Currently, he lives with his wife and son in Hangzhou, China, where he teaches history and makes noise on an assortment of ukuleles.

Kala Ramesh is a musician and haiku poet. Her work, consisting of more than 200 haiku, tanka, senryu, haibun, renku and one-line haiku, have appeared in leading e-zines and anthologies. _kala heads the World Haiku Club in India. As director, she organised the World Haiku Club Meet in Pune in 2006. The four-day 9th World Haiku Festival she organized at Bangalore in February 2008 was sponsored jointly by Sri Sri Ravi Shankar Ji and Sri Ratan Tata Trust. Deputy Editor-in-Chief of The World Haiku Review, also she is an in-house editor of poetry in Katha, a leading publishing house in India. _kala is an exponent of both Carnatic and Hindustani Classical Music styles. She has performed professionally in major cities in India.

For media inquiries or to arrange an interview with the author, contact editor-in-chief M. Kei by e-mail at firepearls@verizon.net Publisher information at:www.modernenglishtankapress.com

This book is available from www.Lulu.com/modernenglishtanka and from the publisher. Complete information and mail/email order forms are available online atwww.modernenglishtankapress.com Price: $16.95 USD. ISBN 978-1-935398-08-0. Trade paperback. 240 pages, 6.00" x 9.00", perfect binding, 60# cream interior paper, black and white interior ink, 100# exterior paper, full-color exterior ink.

About Modern English Tanka Press:

Modern English Tanka Press (MET Press) is an independent publishing house in Baltimore, Maryland, dedicated to producing books and periodicals of lasting literary value, especially poetry. A family business, we treat our customers and partners in publishing like family. We use modern print-on-demand production and distribution methods. Our special mission is to promote the tanka form of poetry and to educate newcomers about this most ancient poetic form.

Contact:

Denis M. Garrison, owner
Modern English Tanka Press
443-802-1249
Email to dmg@themetpress.com
www.themetpress.com www.modernenglishtankapress.com

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Finally today, a dip into the archive for some samples from Lilliput Review #39, from December 1992 (stop me when I get to a time before you were born):




1992

My feet aren't working.
The clock is dead.
There's a new world coming:
beauty's headlights
blind us
from a distance.

Bart Solarczyk

Just Friends

There wasn't enough rhythm
in their eyes when they met
to account for the lack of
slow-dance appeal.

They were destined to be friends
in the same way a sparrow
hugs a branch with its feet

Vogn

Circle

we move in time with the wind's hands
swaying the greendesire ashleaf branches
the way our two bodies sway moonnaked
with the breeze rhythm learned
from watching the wind seduce the ash

christien gholson

I Guess

I guess that, from what I
hear, lots of editors at those
starchy little literary magazines
there, they mostly like only
long puffery poems, one with broad
right- and left-margin-justified lines
filled with imminent predilections
and sigh-heavy forebodings. They
won't much like this one I guess.

Wayne Hogan

wake up! wake up!
sparrows, butterflies
are dancing

Issa
translated by David Lanoue

best,
Don